


to share with me in glory

by JulisCaesar



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, it is not noncon but it is not...not noncon, there is no consent given but like either of them care, using casting from the 2019 globe production
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulisCaesar/pseuds/JulisCaesar
Summary: An encounter in a Eastcheap tavern changes nothing. They fight here as they fight anywhere else, as Harry fights everyone else anyway. But perhaps it gives them something to remember, later in the forest.(or: the writer has to deal not only with shared pronouns but shared names)





	to share with me in glory

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the tags, this fic uses the 2019 Globe production featuring Sarah Amankwah as Prince Hal and Michelle Terry as Harry "Hotspur" Percy. There is no in-fic discussion of gender, so I have tagged it M/M. Feel free to conceptualize as you wish.

Some nights, it was enough to let everyone else get sloppy-drunk and watch them laugh and bet, mock and plot until someone had to go outside and come in, wiping his mouth and looking for another drink to get the taste out again. Those nights, Hal sat in the corner and listened more than spoke, spoke more than jested, jested more than drank; he only sipped the ale and let it rest, golden-heavy on his tongue, before swallowing, and downed one tankard to Falstaff’s three. It left him quiet and good-humoured, looking for someone to touch and be touched by, smiling and soft and careful chosen words. He would find a woman before the night was out, or, often as not, he and Poins would find a corner or a room or an alley and touch each other, familiar and comfortable, sworn brothers, shield-brothers, until they were both drained and tired.

Only this night, tonight, when Falstaff is convincing Bardolph of some scheme to which Hal has not been listening, the tavern door opens to show men with Northumberland’s blue and gold on their arms, shouting and jesting with sharp edges, showing their courage in broad stances and unflinching looks.

Hal stands in surprise and warning, for behind the first is Harry Percy himself, pale skin paler against black jerkin and flickering torchlight, hair falling into his face and fire already high on his cheeks. “Whither go you, my lord?” he says, voice clear and piercing, a man who would be a commander.

Harry Percy, Harry Hotspur, Hero of Holmedon, looks at him and jerks back in false-fright, a man who has commanded and taken ten thousand, and who knows no equal here tonight. “Why, my lord, to drink, my lord, or if not to drink, to wench, and if not to wench, to gamble, and if not to gamble, to another place!”

Hal waits a moment, a second, a heart-beat, but Harry does not bow, but holds his head high, perhaps drunk or perhaps cocksure, his spurs long enough for a fight for all there is no cock-crest on his head.

“There is place enough here, and drink for all, sir, and well-met to the man who brought us victory in the field.” He cannot say otherwise, for to turn away this knight, cause of the Scots’ sorrow, would be an insult met with steel and well-deserved at that. And yet it sits ill with him, to make room meekly and accept the insult of a man and his band arriving where another sits, and presuming to join in, when all know their families have a quarrel.

Harry shows teeth in a smile, a challenge, and takes a chair, turns it, sits reverse, and stares at Hal. “Well-met indeed, says the Prince of Wales, last and least of the House of Lancaster, title a grant, spurs a gift, employment gainless, indeed it _is_ well for you to meet a happy son of a happier father, for you shall never see such in your own family.”

Hal has not sat and does not, standing, anger hot in his chest, back straight, rapier heavy on his hip, thinking, thinking of his father, of honour, of the hard-wrung peace, and he says, voice like iron and like, though he knows it not, his father’s, “Sir, you will apologize for that or I will have an answer of you.”

Harry is out of his chair as quick as he was in it, eyes flashing, lips drawn back, hands on his daggers. “The answer you shall have of me, _sir_, is that you are a coward and a fool, virtue-less son of a faithless father, and I would see you thrashed ere I leave tonight.”

“I am afraid I must disappoint you, sir,” Hal says, falcon-fast, words slipping from his tongue like hounds on the scent, “for ‘tis you due the thrashing for this slander.”

The Northumberland men clear space, but Falstaff and his scoundrels look as ready to flee as fight, and no one stops Harry from drawing a dagger. “Hold then, and we shall see if Lancaster blood is as red as Lancaster rose.”

Heat, anger and anticipation at once, fills Hal’s chest, and he comes ‘round the table, drawing his rapier and finding the stance oft shown him by tutor. “Only come to me first, my lord, and let me spill that which the Scots were denied.”

“My good sirs!” says the landlady, panicked, shrill, a woman who sees her night’s profit eaten by the cost of repairs, and a woman who thinks the King must surely know where his heir goes of a night and wonder if he does not come home again. “In another place, if you please, if you must, my lords, elsewhere, sirs!”

Harry holds, eyes alight, breath heavy, and then, a sudden, rocks on his heels, sheathing the daggers. “As you say, gentle lady,” he says with a mocking bow, too deep and too long. “My prince,” says Hotspur, a fighting cock in his prime, with bloodlust in his eyes, his sharp cheeks, his lips. “Upstairs, if you would, so we might resolve this without distressing this good lady.”

“Oh prince, _good_ prince, _wise_ prince,” Falstaff says, unwanted and unwarranted, but Hal is already moving, restless and angry, wanting to slide his rapier into Harry’s hot flesh—

He leads the way to the stairs and thence to his room, Harry on his heels, their men remaining down below to drink and bluster. They two will have this out in private, and with luck both will walk down later to tell about it. He turns on his heel the moment he is in the room and holds Harry out with his body. “On my honour, you will apologize for your insults or I will take payment in flesh.”

“Coward,” Harry says, with a bold, skewed grin, leaning on the door frame. “I name thee coward, and braggart besides. This room is too small for a duel with blades as you should well know—or _would_ know, if you had ever dueled.” He stands there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, the picture of a prince and arrogance in his very blood, and Hal _burns_.

In that very moment, Hal drops his rapier and swings a punch, not such as his tutor would have him do, but as Falstaff had shown him, a sloppy roundhouse that would clip Harry’s jaw and send him to sleep or the doctor. Only Harry moves faster, shoves his way into the room and into Hal too, hands on Hal’s coat and grasping there, coming into Hal’s space so the punch ends painfully, bending Hal’s arm and landing useless on the back of Harry’s skull.

Laughing, wine on his breath, Harry shoves Hal proper, hard enough to force him back two steps, and then they grapple, too close for punching, Hal holding tight to Harry’s doublet at the shoulders, and Harry grabbing Hal’s coat front. Here they are more evenly matched, for although Harry has the height on him, it is Hal who spends his evenings in sport and knows the ways to move.

They both strain, there in the doorway, and for a moment Hal thinks he might win, if only—if only Harry doesn’t pause suddenly, and his smile turns from arrogant anger to something else, and then Harry kisses him, hard and biting, and Hal loses his grip entirely.

Hotspur takes no advantage of it, though, for he is focused entirely upon bruising Hal’s lips and quick, whip-like flicks of tongue against teeth.

Hal, surprised by the assault, lets him for a moment, halfway, almost leans into it, then recovers himself and twists, pulls back, and puts his elbow into Harry’s gut. Harry, satisfyingly, curls over, gasps, and looks up at Hal with something, amusement mayhaps, on reddened lips.

There was something about the look, about the kiss, about the way Harry _is_, in his hair, and his cheekbones, and his fine, narrow hands, and Hal cannot help but wonder what that kiss would be like from the other side. Before Harry can recover, then, Hal rushes forward and takes Harry by the shoulders. He kisses, at first too hard and he has to grit through the pain that bursts when his lips are trapped between two sets of teeth, but then—then—then Harry kisses back, heat and urgency and bending just slightly into the press of Hal’s body.

With a silent laugh, Harry puts his hands on Hal’s chest and shoves hard, so Hal stumbles back, thrown, no longer thinking about the way Harry moves against him and if this is something he’s done before. “You are a bold coward, sir,” Hotspur says, grinning, coming towards him, movements relaxed despite the marks on his lips and the fire in his eyes. He grabs the neckline of Hal’s shirt and pushes, thrusting Hal against the wall, so he knocks into it, shoulders then hips then head, a marionette let fall. It is what he feels like, the puppet unstringed, torn from his assumptions and rules. When Harry kisses him again then, pinned up against the wall, their bodies pressing from neck to knees, he does not resist, but kisses back, seeing what he can get away with when Harry leans, hot and heavy, on him.

Then Harry pulls back, a hand pressing firm into his chest, and the other hand drops down as Harry looks—_leers_ at him, something hard and hungry in his eyes, and that hand pulls at the waist of Hal’s trousers, fingers pressing in, curling, brushing against hair, and Hal finds himself trying to pull away, but trapped by the rough wooden wall and the fingers on his collarbone. Hal only holds back from a late, deep buried instinct, when he slams his head against Harry’s.

Their heads bounce with a horrid burst of pain and lights behind his eyes, a roaring in his ears, but Hotspur falls back, hands out, swearing oaths that would make their fathers frown.

“You devil, Lancaster,” he says finally, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. He has gone still, for the first time Hal has known him, and speaks softly. “You would rather a duel, then? If this is royal honour, it takes some course I know not of, to begin a fight on one grounds and end it on another.”

Hal stares at him, with his hair bouncing, disarray, the red mark on his forehead which is a fitting match to the red swell of his lips, and cannot remember why he thought it so urgent to remove Harry Hotspur from his body. “I would rather you take back your insults for surely they are disproven,” Hal says, throat tight with some unknown emotion.

Harry tears off, turns, strides around the room like the Tower’s caged lions, runs his hands through his hair. “Then hold you,” he says, coming back to stand, rocking forward on his toes, breath hot, in front of Hal, “so I may show you what it means to exchange blows with Henry Percy.”

Some thing here makes Hal’s stomach turn and heat, and he holds, holds as Harry returns and kisses again, lighter, just a brush, and then Harry’s arm is solid and strong against his chest, holding him to the wall so he does not have to hold himself, and his hand is once more pressing, at the waist of Hal’s trousers.

They pause like that a moment, a breath, and then Harry grins, mad and selfish, and slips his fingers under the drawstring, down and through, until they curl soft into Hal’s brush, and Hal, unwitting, raises his hips to meet. Harry laughs, and leans forward, and moves his fingers down, and they slide over his nub and press into his cleft, and find him slick and open, wet and ready.

Hal cannot stop himself, then, from coming off the wall, grinding down into the pressure of Harry’s fingers, and grabbing Harry’s doublet to pull him in for a kiss.

Eyes too bright, breath shallow, Harry avoids it, but presses up and _in_, drawing a soft noise from Hal unwilling. “Ah, the Prince must be broke to bridle,” he says with a laugh, and rubs just right, just enough along his cleft—

Yet Hal still has his pride, and he will break for no man’s pleasure. He finds his footing and his wits, and shoves Harry in the ribs, catching him unprepared and knocking him back. They grapple again, but this time Hal has the advantage, and it is not long before he throws Harry so he, Harry Hotspur, hero of the north, collides heavily with the floor.

Hotspur makes a noise, strained, the light not dimmed but flickering badly, and Hal is on top of him before he can move. It is his turn to plunge hand below waist, and he learns quickly what a difference it is to be shrouding this in violence. Normally it is a gentle, slow exploration, from hip to curve to taint, but now he has to rush, to keep Harry surprised, and his fingers move with unseemly haste to press hard into the soft flesh around Harry’s nub.

Harry struggles for breath and _moans_, jerks his hips and grabs for Hal’s sleeves. “You,” he starts, but Hal flicks up with his fingers and of a sudden Harry cuts short. Hal gets in a half dozen strokes, drawing up from the base of his cleft to the nub, swirling, and back down, Harry the whole time gasping and writhing, first towards, then away.

Snarling, looking like he was holding himself together by force, Harry twists a hand in Hal’s shirt and does something with his hips, and they both go rolling, the force of it pulling Hal’s hand away. It comes out glistening and wet, and he wants to lick it clean and watch what that does to Harry’s face, but then he is slamming against the wood and cannot think.

By the time he regains his senses, it is Harry whose hand is wet and rubbing, not bothering with curious circles but pressing, hard and rough against the nub, too much and too fast, driving Hal to keen and struggle away, and Harry makes a soft, pleased sound.

Hal cannot bear it, and tries to turn back on Harry the same trick, but Harry just leans on him, moves his hands—and that alone makes Hal whine, and he hates it, it burns in his stomach the need and the same, but he cannot keep it in all the same. Before he knows it, Harry has grabbed both his wrists and forces them above his head, white skin striking on black, and though Hal writhes he cannot get away without ending this half-fight, this game of anger and touching.

Harry bares teeth, a grin, a snarl, and shoves his thigh up between Hal’s legs so it catches just right, and Hal pushes down but it is not near enough and he will not beg this upstart, this jackass, mewling traitor for what he should have rightfully had long before. But Harry’s hands are tight on his wrists, and Harry’s weight presses into his chest and hips, and Harry has angled his hips so every move Hal makes catches both of them, and Hal cannot keep from making movements, little twitches that put pressure just right on his nub and send pleasure scurrying up his spine. Yet, it is not enough, he moans unwilling and tries to press harder, faster, but Harry pulls back and away, shaking his head.

“You fool, baseless coward, craven prince,” Harry says in short, staccato bursts, pressing down so _his_ cleft rubs on Hal’s thigh, so _he_ can get his pleasure but Hal is left short, struggling more now against the hands firm and hot on his wrists.

“Know you the traitor’s reward?” Hal spits, too full of heated emotion to keep the words safely behind his teeth. “Would you take, then, this moment of compliance and exchange it now for your own?”

Hotspur kisses him, hard and biting, pulling at his lips until Hal thinks they might bleed, spilling royal blood into this air of accusations and threats. “I will take no reward from thy hand or thy anointed father’s, but that I raise my standard against him for the offenses which he has given me.” Of a sudden, he releases Hal’s hands and once more slides his fingers neath his waistband. “Thy pleasure I shall take, and accept no exchange but thy compliance.”

“My compliance thou shalt not have,” Hal says, but cannot keep himself from pressing into the fingers which move, steady, around his nub and build his tension till it almost breaks. He thinks to say more but the words slide away as they so rarely do, leaving him bereft and gasping.

Harry does not pause in motion, but something comes on his face, a joy not tinged with spite or anger, and Hal remembers too late his freed hands and cannot find the will to use them. “Then that I shall take as well, and hoist my banner knowing that I made Henry, Prince of Wales, yield to me.”

And with that, Hal, lost to everything, has to be content.


End file.
